


To Drive the Cold Winter Away

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [65]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Caroling, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, Gen, John used to be in a band, Kidlock, Parent-Child Relationship, References to Past Child Abuse, Sherlock is a better parent than his parents were
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmeses and the Watsons are at the old Holmes family manor for Christmas, in part to prepare it for sale. That house has a lot of bad memories in it. But maybe this Christmas, ten year old Ford and eleven year old Violet will help their parents find and make better ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Drive the Cold Winter Away

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Loreena McKennitt xmas song In Praise of Christmas from the album To Drive the Cold Winter Away

“This used to be full of chickens.” Sherrinford Holmes stood beside his best friend Violet Morstan Watson and stared unhappily in to the bare, frost-dusted and obviously chicken-free run inside the old stables. “I used to know all of them by sight.”

He’d first come to this sad, empty house when he was five. He’d last been here two years ago, when he was eight. And this Christmas would be his first and last here, too. Finally, the old ruin was being sold. He wished it made his father happier, to be getting rid of it. He wished he knew why it made his two fathers so miserable.

“I know,” said Violet, taking Ford’s hand. She could hardly feel it, through the layers of his winter gloves and her own, but he squeezed back, so it seemed to be enough anyway. “You showed me the notebook. The drawings were really good.”

“Even the ones I did when I was five?” He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“Sherry, I can’t draw that good _now_ , and I’m _eleven_.”

“You are a great artist,” he said staunchly.

Violet grinned. “I’m not bad,” she said, “But I’m not as good as you.”

He preened a bit, like one of the chickens of old. Then he pushed his gloved fingers through the rusting chicken wire and rattled it.

“I know Dad and Sherlock hate it here, but I liked it when I was little. I liked coming out to see the chickens.”

Violet frowned. “I think their dad was a bit of a bastard.”

“Yeah. And their mum was a bit…” he pursed his lips thoughtfully, the way his fathers both did, “Mum says I’m not allowed to say ‘mad’ but she was. Mum says Grandma Holmes was so sad she ran away inside her head and didn’t come out again.”

Violet considered that. “That is sad,” she said, “But it was sad for Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft too.”

“Yeah.”

Violet leaned against Ford’s shoulder. “Your Mum won’t ever run away from you, Sherry.”

“I know.”

“And I know this place makes Sherlock really bad-tempered, but he’s not like Old Bastard Holmes.”

Ford half swallowed a snort of laughter. “Is that what John calls him?”

Violet gave him a lop-sided grin. “Not to me, but I heard him talking to Sherlock yesterday, and he said,” and here Violet proceeded to do passable impressions of both her fathers' tones and mannerisms, “‘Sherlock, you’re your own man, you are not turning into Old Bastard Holmes’ and Sherlock said, kind of rudely, if you ask me, ‘How would _you_ know that?’ and Dad said ‘Because I know you, you pillock, and if you’re going to be an old bastard, you’ll be a bloody Sherlockian bastard, because you don’t do anything the way anyone has done it before’ and Sherlock actually looked like that was a nice thing to say, and then Dad said ‘You’re a good dad to both your kids’ Then he said a lot of gooey stuff that usually makes Sherlock do that face, you know, like someone ate a dozen eggs with cabbage and then farted, but he just did that other look, you know…”

“The one where he looks like he’s got a bit of biscuit stuck in his throat but it made him happy instead of sick?”

“That’s the one, and then they hugged. It was cute.”

Ford rolled his eyes because the amount of hugging those two did that everyone pretended not to see was prodigious. “He _is_ a good dad, though,” Ford decided. “Maybe we should tell him, if he’s worried about being like the Old Bastard Holmes or his run-away Mum.”

Violet thought this an excellent idea. “We could make him a card.”

“We should make it a puzzle,” said Ford.

“You should draw it.”

“You can colour it in.”

Grinning at each other, the best friends ran into the house into Violet’s room, found paper and pens and started on Project Good Dad Sherlock.

 


	2. Each Other in Love to Greet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has little but memories of misery of this old house. But in the kitchen this morning, new memories are being made, and a joyful noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This title is also from Loreena Mckennit's In Praise of Christmas from her album To Drive the Cold Winter Away, my favourite Christmas Album ever.

 

It was not often that Mycroft Holmes was begrimed with dust and cobwebs. Almost never, truth be told, and not for many decades, but this was hardly a task to be delegated, and Sherlock certainly wouldn't do it. That Sherlock was here at all was surprising enough, though Mycroft had learned that Sherlock could be persuaded to almost any task for Sherrinford's sake. Between Sherrinford , Violet and John Watson, Mycroft had been surprised, over the last 13 or so years, to learn what his brother could be persuaded to do. 

Mycroft deposited the box he held on the parlour floor and cast another eye over its contents. So few mementoes of the life they once had here. Perhaps it was as well. It had been a materially comfortable life, in many ways, but bereft in so many more. The lives they had now were richer by far, without bothering to count coin or land. The mouldering remainders of that old life he had just been picking through in the attic could be sold with the house, or burned, and he did not care a whit which it was.

Mycroft heard music, then laughter, then rhythmic thumping, emanating from the kitchen, and stepped quietly down the hall to confirm his theories. And yes, there, reflected in the mirror hanging on the wall beside the dining room, were his wife and his son, preparing breakfast in the least efficient manner possible.

One of the two had turned the radio up to an untenable degree and mother and son were dancing around the kitchen benches, preparing eggs, meat, vegetables. His Sally could not sing, alas, but she was a fine dancer, even in this modern free-form style in which he'd never personally shown any grace. She and Sherrinford had a routine down, though,  waggling hips, shimmying shoulders, clapping and stomping, turn and shout, giggle and start over again. The steps varied depending on who was chopping tomatoes, who was beating the eggs, but they managed their joyful, graceful meal-preparation dance and sometimes Sherrinford sang. Sometimes Sally did too, even though everyone knew she couldn't sing, but that didn't matter. A joyful noise mattered. 

Mycroft hadn't known families could make joyful noise together. All of his family's noise, growing up, had been sharp or sly or cruel or very much conditional.

It was hardly a surprise that Sherlock refused to sleep in it. He'd come to be with Sherrinford and Violet and John, but not even those three could make him sleep in the manor house itself. Just as well the old groundskeeper's cottage was serviceable. The three of them were bunking in the living room, with the fireplace and comfortably shabby furnishings. Violet was treating it all like a large adventure, as was Sherrinford, and the two had already worked out a schedule of switching beds between the house and the cottage. The snow-dusted walk between the two was not an uncomfortable inconvenience but a path to exploration and what Sally smilingly referred to as shenanigans.

Mycroft didn't think it had ever been such a road to adventure to him, though it had been so to Sherlock for a short time. The path leading to the cottage started from the stables then ran past the manor and then the greenhouse, now in fragments - where Sherlock in his pirate dress-ups had once thwarted the gardener's attempts to thrash Mycroft for stealing strawberries, and ended up scarring Mycroft's hand with a garden fork and his own mouth on the palm tree into which he'd run. It oughtn't be such a fond memory, all that blood and strife, but it was. One of so few.

No, Instead, every stone and every dark corner of this ruined (and in parts quite dangerously dilapidated) house held the very opposite. SInce their arrival the previous morning, Mycroft's journey around the lower floors, the upper storey, the attic, had been filled with reminders of unhappiness.

_That warped Bechstein grand piano in the parlour is where Mummy made us play for her, I on the piano and Sherlock on his violin, and rewarded only which of us had pleased her best that day. That chair in which mice have made a nest is where she sat and presented her cheek to us for kissing when we had company, or when she was feeling particularly needy. That musty room is where Father withdrew for days sometimes, and emerged only to criticise whatever drew his ire that day._

_Those are the stairs down which Sherlock's pet rabbit fell and broke its leg, and where Father killed it while Sherlock cried, and sent the animal to the kitchens to teach the child toughness, ruthlessness. That is the bathroom in which Sherlock was_ _violently ill after being made to eat the stew. The same bathroom where I treated his cuts when he smashed his baby china, covered in pictures of Peter Rabbit, and swore he'd never even had a pet, ever, and to this day Sherlock won't eat rabbit and does not remember why._

_These are the halls in which Sherlock was praised for his cleverness and curiosity, except when they were embarrassing or inconvenient, until the day he was never praised again._

_These are the halls and rooms in which I made myself silent and watchful and far from their regard, and I tried to teach Sherlock to learn to do the same but he never did. He is not the silent kind. These are the rooms in which I tried to teach him to be like me, in the hopes of protecting him, and failed us both in the attempt._

_And there is where Sherlock told Mummy about Father kissing Mrs Outhwaite, and also the grocer's sister, and also the gardener’s teenaged boy, because Sherlocl was seven and wanted to understand the different kinds of kisses because these others were not at all like when Mummy asked him and Mycroft to kiss her cheek, and was it likely that Father would want him and My to kiss Father's penis like he'd seen the grocer's sister and the gardener's son do in the stables, because he didn't really want to, please._

_And that is where Mummy told Sherlock he was a filthy little liar, and slapped him, and threw his notebook of observations onto the fire, and slapped him again when he bit his lip and refused to cry, because he'd learned that lesson well, that only babies cry, he'd learned that lesson when he was four, and she' slapped him again because he wouldn't make a sound, and Mycroft had snatched Sherlock by the hand and dragged him from the room before Mummy hit him again._  

_And over there is where I made Sherlock hide when Father intended to beat him._

_And this is where Father told Sherlock he was a freak; and that is where Father said he was leaving and that Sherlock was to blame and no son of his._

_And those are the stains that showed the bathtub was overflowing the next day, but they got to her in time, that time._

_And the mark on that carpet is where, many years later, they were late, and Mummy vomited up some of the poison she swallowed, but not enough of it._

_There and there and there and there_ , thought Mycroft, _are where we fractured and failed, this poisonous family of ours_.

The front door opened and Mycroft withdrew a little - silent and watchful - as first Violet clattered down the hall and then her fathers followed in more sedate measure. Sherlock was steering John away from the larger obstacles and scowling. 

But then Violet burst out of the kitchen again, grabbed first John then Sherlock by the hand and tugged them into the warmth and wonderful noise of the kitchen. 

"Sleepyhead!" he heard Violet pronounce, and resuming his former position, he saw Violet push a mug of tea into John's hands, and John take a sip and instantly become more alert.

Mycroft saw Sherrinford launch himself at Sherlock for a hug and Sally laughed as Sherlock, despite his mood, greeted him fondly and buried his nose in the boy's hair as he hugged him back.

Violet danced with Sally and was cheerfully scolded as she stuck her finger in a bowl and withdrew the digit coated in cake batter. Then Sally repeated the offence herself, declaring it 'just sweet enough' before pouring the mixture into little cake tins she'd found yesterday. HIs Sally was an excellent baker, it had turned out. She made cupcakes on special occasions.

Mycroft grinned at that, and suddenly found his Sally's gaze meeting his in the mirror. She crooked her finger and beckoned to him.

He dusted his hands together, straightened his relatively informal blazer and walked into the golden light, the fragrant warmth, of that kitchen. 

Where Sally kissed his cheek, and Sherrinford, having released Sherlock from both a hug and an intense quiz on the badger Sherlock claimed was sleeping underneath the fusty old couch on the cottage porch, promptly launched himself into his Dad's arms for his own good morning greeting.

Where John Watson raised a mug of tea at him in salute, and Violet wrapped her arms round Mycroft's back, so that he was enveloped, forward and aft, by enthusiastic children, both of whom were giggling.

Where Sherlock himself raised an eyebrow at his brother, selected a fresh-toasted crumpet smothered in butter and honey and held it up for Mycroft (arms full of his son and so not free to partake easily yet) to bite. Which he did.

"Ford and Violet assure me that they have not ruined the eggs with marmalade this year," said Sherlock, "And they claim we'll be eating breakfast soon."

"You liked the marmalade with the eggs," said John, grinning, "You told Violet they were... let me see..."

"An egregious contrast of textures, flavours and digestibility," laughed Violet.

"She was so impressed until I reminded her what egregious means," said Sherrinford, laughing harder.

"You and your kitchen diplomacy!" Violet's eye-rolling was rather more dramatic than even Sherlock's had been at that age.

"Breakfast's up!" decalred Sally, but the children made her sit down next to Mycroft at the battered kitchen table, and John and Sherlock were positioned on the other side of the table, and the children dished out eggs and bacon and fried mushrooms and a tomato-courgette-parsley concoction (Violet's eggs and bacon were haphazardly splattered on the china, Sherrinford's mushrooms and tomatoes more artfully placed) and mugs of overbrewed tea with too much milk and sugar - made, it seemed, to Sherrinford's preferred tastes.

Mycroft heard Sherrinford and Violet whispering together, as they assembled their own plates of food, something about a set of cards, but his son gave him a stern look before telling VIolet to shush. So they stopped whispering and found their own places at the table and spoke pointedly of hoping there would be a enough snow to make a snowman.

It was a long, loud meal, full of clattering dishes, and babbling chatter, and ... joyful noise.

For that little while, Mycroft thought, this house, this terrible house, was instead the warm and welcoming place a home should be. If he had in the slightest believed in Christmas miracles, he would certainly have counted this among them.

Mycroft felt warm lips pressed to his temple and turned to see Sally smiling at him. "Having a good Christmas, love?"

"Having a most excellent life, my dearest," he said, "And I look forward to the cupcakes."

Sally giggled - she didn't do that often, and he adored it when she did - and said: "Me too."

Perhaps he could suggest that tonight, Sherrinford should sleep in the cottage with Violet, Sherlock and John. Yes, Mycroft thought, that would be a most excellent plan.

An opportunity for joyful noise, indeed.

 


	3. Sit by the Fire with Friendly Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock chat by the fire as their children sleep, talking about parents and siblings.

Sherlock was stretched out on one saggy arm chair, his feet propped up on a low chest that had contained layers of newspapers, now old beyond use. The papers had burned beautifully to get the hearth fire started, though, so they'd not been wasted.

In the chair beside Sherlock, John was likewise slumped, his own feet on a pile of ancient farrmer's almanacs, waiting their turn at setting a blaze. John's head was tilted back against the headrest and his eyes were closed. He seemed to be asleep, although he wasn't. _Enjoying the quiet_ , Sherlock observed, _the sound of the fire; the sound of the children breathing softly as they sleep._

Ford and Violet had finally dropped off to sleep on their camp beds next to the wall, after much secretive whispering and giggling. Mycroft and Sally, Sherlock surmised, were making the most of the time and space they'd maneouvred for themselves, then refused point blank to surmise anything further about that.

"Violet and Ford are plotting something," Sherlock said softly, by way of a diversion.

"Well, roll me in Skittles and colour me amaaaaaazed," replied John, deadpan, repeating a phrase Violet had either picked up from school or invented. John opened one eye to regard Sherlock's expression. "Sorry. But you don't seriously expect me to be astonished by this news?"

"Not at all, but I am not speaking of the run of the mill mischief..."

John snorted at the idea that their children ever committed run of the mill mischief, and Sherlock had to smile.

"I believe it's a rather more ambitious project. Ford, I am sure, overheard Mycroft say how much he hated the old piano and is not at all sorry that it is warped beyond use or rescue."

"You think they're planning a dire fate for the piano."

"Of course. The nature of the demise is of more concern."

"Is this your way of saying we should stop them?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of..."

"...getting the camera ready?"

Sherlock grinned into the fire. "Video, perhaps."

"Nice." John settled back into the chair and regarded the fire thoughfully.

"Mycroft said your mum used to make the two of you play, and pick a winner."

Sherlock shrugged. "Sometimes. She enjoyed making us compete for her attention. Perhaps to compensate for the lack of attention she received from our father." He turned his head to look at John. "It wasn't all her fault. I believe she had an undiagnosed mental illness. Combined with a desperately unhappy marriage, it was never going to go well for anyone. She should never have agreed to marry him, just because the families wanted it." He observed John not saying anything, and read his usual six layers of meaning into the silence. "Yes, Mycroft and I did used to play the 'Mummy' card as adults. He and I continued to compete for her approval for years after we both knew what a charade it was. Even after she was no longer capable of giving it."

John reached over and patted Sherlock's hand. He hadn't known about their mother for a long time, but when she finally died in her nursing home, long years after the suicide attempt that had robbed her of her mind, he'd been there at the service. Sally had been pregnant with Ford at the time. Over ten years ago, now. So much had changed.

Sherlock turned his hand over to take John's and squeeze it. "We've grown past that, now," he said simply.

John's smile was a little sad. 

Sherlock wanted to say "She'll come" but he knew it for a lie. Harry wouldn't come. Harry would spend Christmas drunk and not come, unless he was very much mistaken, and he never was. It would be nice to be mistaken, this once. Perhaps he should say something. Perhaps...

"Get that look off your face," said John, smiling ruefully at his friend and letting go his hand. "The chances of Harry being sober enough to drive, let alone sober enough to remember where we are this year, are small. Christmases are hard for her." He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "Just like the other 364 days are hard. I suppose I should be grateful she keeps it away from the kids and just sends cards and presents. When she remembers."

"John..."

"It's... you know, it's okay, as far as it goes. I used to deal with Christmas by starting fights, until I started the band. Then I'd go out and play gigs as far from home as I could get. And then I studied medicine and worked Christmas, and joined the army and did the same. I hid in different ways, but I still hid. Harry... I don't hate her. I don't like her when she's drunk, but I don't hate her. I'm sorry she's missing all this, missing Violet growing up, but I'm not sorry she's not showing up to spew misery and bile all over us either. I keep the door open for her, Sherlock. If she ever looks like coming towards it, I'll stand at the threshold and help her in. "

Sherlock weighed up the likelihood of that ever happening and found it wanting. Still.

"Despite everything, Mycroft and I mended our fences," he said at last, "Sally and I have found a rapport. I don't despise Anderson as abidingly as I once did. An optimist would say there's hope for you and Harry."

John grinned at him. "An optimist would say that you were displaying unmistakable signs of Christmas Spirit."

"Optimists are idiots."

"I'm an optimist."

"Case in point."

"Pillock."

"Simpleton."

"Dick."

"Clod."

"Idiot."

"And here we are," said Sherlock, "Full circle."

"Do you think we could get some marshmallows to roast on the fire?"

"Mycroft can send some of his secret servicemen to fetch them for you."

"Agent 003," intoned John in a gravelly action-cinema voice, "Licence to grill." He started to sing the James Bond theme tune. "Da-da-daDA-da-da-doo, da-da-daDA-da-dadoo, BA-niooow-dow-daaa Da-dodaaaaa."

"If you don't desist immediately, not onlly will you wake Violet and Ford, they will be awake to see me shoot you with your own gun."

"No appreciation for art, you." But John desisted.

They fell into a comfortable silence, broken a short while later by Sherlock.

"You were right."

"Quick, make a note so we can mark the date on the calendar." John's grin was impish. "About what?"

"I am... not like my father. Being here... I remember. Things I spent a lot of time deleting. I went away to boarding school not long after her left the first time. He came and went for years after that, but rarely during the breaks. I'd return from school and he'd be gone a day later, usually after I'd commented on the latest unsavoury secret he was trying to keep. I'd given up being terrified of him by then. I was at secondary school when he finally stopped trying to get back into the house, and Mummy's money. Not much of it left by then, except the trust funds for our education. He was a sad, broken, bitter old man by the time he died. And I am not that. I will not be that. I certainly will not be the woeful parent he was. For one simple reason."

John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock raised one back. "Don't make me say it, John, it's unspeakably mawkish."

John tilted a smile at him. "And I won't be the heartbroken, bitter old bastard my old man was, either. Same reason. And I'm going to be unspeakably mawkish about it." He leaned across and looked directly into Sherlock's eyes. "You. I met you, and the trajectory of my life changed, and instead of loneliness and anger, I've got this. All of this. Thank you."

Sherlock, eyes dancing with firelight and not just that, smiled back. "And you, John." 

Behind them, Ford snuffled in his sleep and turned. Violet fidgeted in response, sighed, and muttered what sounded a lot like: "That'll smash it" before subsiding into sleep again.

Johh and Sherlock regarded the mounds of blanket-shrouded mischief and then each other.

"It's definitely going to be worth filming," said John.

"Oh yes," said Sherlock, with ill-repressed glee, "I'm counting on it."


	4. Wholly Consort with Mirth and Sport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford and Violet have plans for that old piano. It's possibly not the best idea they ever had, and they are going to be in SO MUCH TROUBLE. But only if certain people will stop laughing.

John was busy out by the old stables, chopping wood, when Ford and Violet made their way a little too innocently into the manor house. He would have noticed the overabundance of innocence, certainly, since it had been his own modus operandi at that age. But no. He was chopping wood, enjoying the heft and swing of it, the satisfying chunk of the blade hitting wood. He had a lot of ire to work off, having learned over breakfast how Old Bastard Holmes had burned some of Sherlock's notebooks the first year Sherlock was at boarding school, and how the Old Bastard's best advice to his son, who was being bullied at school, was to 'stop blubbing like a baby and hit back'. Great advice to give an eight year old. Terrific. Every swing of John's axe was a blow against that cruel, petty prick. It was probably as well the fucker was dead, because if he'd shown up now, John would have clocked him, age difference be damned.  

Sally and Mycroft were going over their list and arranging the paperwork. Anything Sherlock and Mycroft wished to keep would be sent back in a small car. The original plan had called for a small truck, but there wasn't really that much that was salvagable, let alone wanted. Everything, from the piano which had once been very valuable and was now just so much warped wood, stained ivory and out-of-tune wire to the broken furnishings that had been thrown into the attic decades earlier was pretty much just waiting to be burned. The whole house was probably to be demolished. The floorboards of the second storey were so rotten that some of the rooms couldn't even be enterred. The children had been sternly warned against exploring up there. Only the stairs and corridor to the attic were sturdy enough for passage, and the attic itself was also quite dangerous in some sections. Sally had an arm around Mycroft's waist as they sat together, discussing what would be burned, what would be sold with the property, what would be taken away. She kissed his cheek and he sighed and pressed his forehead to hers. "It's quite all right, my love," he said, "I'm not sad about old things. There is little here of any sentimental value. I took what mattered away with me when I graduated. A painting or two, my diaries, grandmere's china, and Sherlock. Everything else I have of value came much later, and is so much richer than anything I had before." ANd he kissed her, to make it clear who and what he meant. 

This speech, and the long, long kiss that followed were the reason neither of them heard the creak of the very first stair, and two children hissing 'Sh!' at one another, because they didn't make a sound again after that and he missed their passage entirely.

Sherlock had finally been prevailed upon to take at least a quick look in the attic, the former library, and his old room, for anything he wished to keep. He already knew he wanted nothing of this place, but he did it, mostly because John kept scowling at each room of the house, as though it were personally responsible for the misery that had been enacted within its walls. Well, to be fair, Sherlock also treated the house like it was to blame, only coming in for meals with the family.  But John's attitude made him feel that he should show he was not prey to such emotional prevarications. (Even though he was. He hated this house, and every room in it reminded him of something he'd devoted considerable time to forgetting, or at least that there was a deleted memory that he had no intention of rediscovering.)

He missed the children creeping silently up the stairs, because he was busy staring at the walls of his childhood bedroom, and the scribbled formulas, observations and sketches he'd made (behind cupboards and curtains, inside the wardrobe and underneath the framed photographs, so that he would not get in trouble, yet again, for defacing the foul wallpaper). Ford and Violet were careful to tip-toe along the edge of the stairs, nearest the wall, to avoid the rest of the creaky steps.

The next noise they made, everyone missed.

Sherlock had gone downstairs, carrying a dusty chemistry book, the margins of which were crammed with notes written in his nine-year-old hand, suggestions and corrections and observations on various experiments, which he thought Ford might find amusing, and also a book of pirate adventures, his when he was three, in which Mycroft had penned in a neat hand 'Happy Birthday Sherlock'. He thought VIolet might appreciate it, and the childish sketches he'd made in it, of him and Mycroft dressed as pirates. Mycroft was the chubby one. Sherlock was the Captain.

Thus, no-one was on the first storey to hear whispers, giggling, the hushed glide of nylon rope, tiny grunts of effort and a huff as something was tied too tightly, and then tested firmly against the anchor.

No-one heard the tapping of a long broom handle on the hallway floor, or the slight soft crunch of the wooden floorboard giving under it.

"You're sure?" whispered Violet harshly.

"Of course I'm sure. Hang on." Ford sprawled on the floor and wriggled forward, commando style, to stare down the hole he'd just created. "I can see it. I told you."

"Just double checking. We don't want to smash up the kitchen by mistake. We need the kitchen. And your parents are in it."

Ford wriggled back to the edge of the room and beamed at Violet, his face streaked wtih dust and grime. "My calculations were exact!" His tone was triumphant rather than aggrieved. "And no-one's in there. Sherlock's just gone down to the kitchen with Mum and Dad. John's in the yard. Stage One is complete."

Violet grinned back, gleeful and wicked.

"Stage Two coming up!"

Downstairs, sharp ears finally heard a sound. A grinding noise. A harsh kind of scraping. LIke the feet of, say, an old bedroom cabinet made of walnut and enamel, being pushed across a wooden floor. The crunch of such a piece of furniture bumping against an old door frame was less audible, and so it took Sherlock, in the kitchen with Sally and Mycroft, a moment to register it.

"Push harder!" urged Ford. Violet pushed harder and with a particularly loud scrape, the cabinet, its passage aided with grease from a tin they'd found in the stables and strategically placed chunks of cardboard and straw, shot out of the master bedroom and into the hallway opposite the bathroom.

The hallway whose floorboards were thin and rotted from water seepage coming from overflowing tubs and damaged pipes, and a decade of neglect. The hallway floor into which Ford had so recently punched a hole with a broom handle.

John had just come inside with a basket of wood as Mycroft and Sherlock stood up, alarm on their features as they stared up at the ceiling, then out the kitchen door towards the parlour.

He dropped the basket as Sally rose, alarmed by their alarm

At that very moment, there was a lull, filled with aprehension, and then  a creak, and then a groan and then...

... an almighty crash and roar and an explosion of wood, metal, discordant notes shrieking an unmusical chorus as dirt and dust and cobwebs billowed out of the parlour to meet the adults running out and then stumbling to a standstill, surveying the devastation before them.

A bedroom cabinet - one of Mummy's treasures but stained and warped beyond salvage even before it had been shoved onto a dangerous floor to push and plummet through rotten wood to land slap in the middle of the hated grand piano.

And as the dust settled, all that could be heard - and it was quite enough really - was the whooping and hollering of two young demons peering through the hole they'd made and cheering on the result of their destruction.

As the dust cleared, Ford and VIolet, grinning fit to burst, realised that they had an audience. Four parents, looking up at them, in various states of disapproval and fury.

"Ah..." began Violet, belatedly realising that the Great Scheme might have unintended consequences.

"Violet Morstan Watson Holmes!" roared John, using the rarest and not strictly legal form of her name, "What the buggery fuck do you think you are doing?"

"Testing..." she began.

"YOu could have got yourself killed," John continued to roar, not especially interested in the reasons for this dangerous tomfoolery, "You could have come through the fucking roof with that thing!"

"No, but John, see," Ford hurried to explain, "We tied ourselves to the bed. Good strong nylon rope, excellent knots. You showed us how to tie proper knots, see!" Ford waggled a length of bright orange nylon rope, which each of them wore around their waists. The other ends were, indeed, anchored to a heavy cast-iron bedframe in the master bedroom, "I wouldn't let..."

"Sherrinford Holmes," and Sally's voice was not a roar but it was certainly far from a happy tone. Very far. Grown men, armed with guns, knives, canisters of nerve toxin, had been known to quail at that voice, "Get. Down. Here. This. Instant."

Ford blinked, owl-eyed, at his mother. Violet, face as white as chalk, swallowed.

Sherlock Holmes stared at the pair of them, and started to giggle.

Mycroft Holmes stared from the dust-smeared children, to the carnage of the cabinet and the piano that had been smashed to smithereens, to his brother, and snorted. Then barked a sudden sharp laugh. Then guffawed. Genuinely guffawed. 

Sally and John stared, horrified, at the two brothers who were laughing so hard now that Sherlock was doubled up and Mycroft was honest to god crying. They caught the looks on John and Sally's faces, tried to sober up, then looked at each other, or the mess, or the bemused faces above them, and off they'd go again. Howling with laughter.

"Dad?"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to say something but was wheezing too hard, so he took a breath, tried to composse himself and began with"You tied yourself to the bed?"

"Er... yes."

Mycroft's laughter rose above any further attempt and he was pointing at the destroyed ceiling, trying to speak, and unable to do more than say: "Twice your brains, Sherlock!" and collapse again, this time against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Easily twice," Sherlock agreed, hanging onto Mycroft, "And yours. You didn't think of it either. And you were fifteen."

Mycroft sobered briefly. "And the result was not nearly so.." he waved an imperious hand at the pile of debris, "Spectacular."

"Oh goodness, no. This is... we should take a photo." Sherloock reached into his pocket for his phone, snapped a shot of the dead piano, snapped one of the children staring down with bemused expressions, snapped another of John looking absolutely gobsmacked and then once more doubled over with uncontrollable, howling laughter. "Your face, John!"

"Sherlock..." John meant to sound much more cross, but already a laugh was bubbling up. He looked at Sally. She was looking at Mycroft laughing, hands over his face and shoulders shaking with unmistakable hilarity. Sally started to smile, uncertainly at first, and then more hugely, as though anything that made Mycroft laugh like that had to be worth the price of admission. She caught John's eye and started to giggle, which set John off. 

That left Ford and Violet staring at their chortling parents and then each other as though the world had gone utterly mad. 

Half an hour later, fresh boards had been laid over the hole in the floor (at the opposite end of the hallway to the attic stairs) and the children retrieved. They stood in the kitchen, coated in grime, and wondering just how they had managed to avoid being punished from now until next Christmas. They both knew it had nothing to do with Ford's meticulously laid out notes about testing tensile strength, the exact weight required for something to fall through the rotten floors, the accuracy of his geometric calculations and the best and fastest way to get rid of 'that cursed piano'.

Mycroft, hands folded in front of him, his head at a speculative angle, was the first to start with the lecture. "I should be absolutely furious with you both, for endangering yourselves and others in such a cavalier fashion, not to mention the destruction of property..."

"My calculations were exact," protested Ford, not triumphant now, but certainly determined, "And we took safety precautions,  you saw. And we made sure we knew where everyone was before we moved the cabinet. And you said the floors would have to be removed anyway. And you said you wanted to burn the piano..."

"Sherrinford." It was meant to be in a warning tone, but the humour underneath it bubbled up again, "You should not be so literal in your interpretations. I thank the stars I did not utter anything so incautious as 'who will rid me of this turbulent priest?'" 

Ford and Violet simply looked puzzled at this.

SHerlock, standing to one side with his arms folded, kept grinning. It was doing nothing for household discipline. Sally just shook her head, as though unable to believe this family of hers.

"Mycroft and I shoved a tallboy out of the nursery window when I was eight," said Sherlock suddenly. Mycroft looked at him, and started grinning again. 

"A tall boy?" Ford was both shocked and impressed.

"A tallboy," corrected Mycroft, "It's very like a small wardrobe, tall and thin., with hanging space and drawers. It was a ... particularly despised piece of furniture."

"We dragged it to the window and built a fulcrum," said Sherlock, still grinning, "Although there were some minor miscalculations in trying to tip it over the window sill."

"Sherlock very nearly went out with it," said Mycroft, ruefully.

"You did managed to catch me by the belt," said Sherlock, eyes sparkling with the memory, "Though it took a week and a half for the bruises to fade."

"If only we'd thought to tie a safety rope to you." Mycroft's eyes were twinkling right back.

"Didn't you get into awful trouble?" asked Violet, spellbound.

"Most awful," agreed Sherlock, "But at least he couldn't lock me in the bloody thing again." He realised he'd said too much, and changed tack, "The noise it made as it hit the path was terrific. My first and most favourite explosion, I think."

"Oh, my, yes," agreed Mycroft, "And Beale, the gardener, hid us both in the stables until the worst of the fury had past, and though we were supposed to have nothing but water and crackers for a week, Mrs Nance, the cook, slipped food to us constantly. We possibly ate better that week that at any time before or since."

"You ate all the jam roly poly," said Sherlock, mildly accusatory, but he was smiling.

"And you scoffed all the bacon sandwiches, as I recall, for an experiment, so I consider us even."

When it was clear that no punishment at all was coming from that quarter, Violet cast a worried glance at her father. John's arms were crossed and he had that look on his face.The one he got sometimes after Sherlock had blown up the microwave or put ears next to the butter again.

"Violet..." he began sternly, and then he sighed. "Given the appalling example set for you by me, by Sherlcok and by your mothers..." He stood straight and huffed a sharp breath. "If Mycroft isn't going to be furious with you about the destruction of his house, I'm going to let that lie. As for having the idiotic idea in the first place, you and Ford are equally to blame, but since everyone else is determined to be impressed with the planning, I guess... Congratulations on using a safety harness. well done on not getting killed. If you ever do anything like that again, and provided you haven't killed your old man dead with a heart attack, you won't get off with just a warning next time, so watch it."

"Yes, Dad." said Violet meekly, and already she was looking much too innocent again.

John sighed.

Sherlock said: "Perhaps I should tell her about the time you helped me break into a top secret military installation."

John glared at him.

"Or about the time you dressed up as a ninja."

"You dressed up as a ninja?" Ford and Violet both looked deeply impressed, and deeply curious.

"For a case," said John, a little desperately, "All for cases."

"This was for science," said Ford, very seriously, and he looked at his Dad, because it was for revenge too, against the OldBastard and the Run-Away mother.

And Mycroft saw that look in his son's eyes, and understood it, and thought it was singularly inappropriate that he should be so touched by his son wanting to help dispell the ghosts of the past. He leaned over and kissed Ford's brow. "Still," he said, "Best not do anything like that again."

"It may not be so funny next time," said Sally.

"Or so free of broken bones," said John.

"Or so very apt," added Sherlock.

"No, Dad. Mum. We won't."

"We promise, Dad. Sherlock."

"Off with you then, and get cleaned up." Mycroft exchanged a look with Sherlock, "It appears we have an excellent start to a bonfire in the parlour, but we really should move it outside."

Sherlock looked for a moment like nothing would please him more than to have a bonfire in the parlour, but Sally gave him a grim glare and he desisted. But then he grinned. "Let's burn the oak chest from the study, too."

"We were going to sell that," said Sally, but Mycroft just grinned.

"Oh yes," he said, "Let's."

 

 


	5. Good Fortune Attend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary, Sally and Nirupa go out to cut down a Christmas tree, and talk about Christmases past, being a good parent and old fashioned child-rearing. At least, until they're faced with the ultimate question: which side to take in the Holmes-Watson civil war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found information on flowering winter plants in the UK from [ The Guardian. ](http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/gallery/2012/jan/16/winter-flowering-plants#/?picture=384360878&index=9)
> 
> I've just done a bit of a tweak, as I realised I'd accidentally posted an earlier version of the fic. *headdesk*

Mary and Nirupa arrived at the manor house the day after The Murder of the Grand Piano and continued the tradition of failing to be parental disciplinarians by laughing their heads off, asking for the fine details and demanding copies of Sherlock’s photographs.

Sleeping arrangements got slightly more complex, with Sherlock and Nirupa bunking down in the cottage with the kids for the night (and staying up until 3am talking about her recent sojourn in Tibet and some fascinating insights she had into the uses of narcotics, hallucinogens and meditation in different non-urbanised and remote communities around the world). 

John and Mary made a very comfortable shared foam-mattress-and-sleeping-bag bed in the kitchen at the back of the manor and proceeded to not sleep very much.

Mycroft and Sally, in the room they’d set up in the study at the front of the house, decided the best way to combat the muffled giggles and less innocent sounds that the kitchen inhabitants obviously thought they were keeping quiet was to make a little joyful noise themselves. And to hang a blanket over their door for extra soundproofing. Early next morning, the first sound they heard was a yell, then terrible (and yet wonderfully inventive) swearing, then Mary laughing so hard she started hiccupping. Sally and Mycroft, wrapped in warm dressing gowns and even warmer slippers, emerged to find Sherlock, Nirupa, Ford and Violet making pancakes for breakfast while Mary skilfully dressed inside a sleeping bag and John – a vague lump beside her, only his hair visible through the top of the bag – complaining fuzzily, indistinctly but obviously bitterly about having been woken up at bollocksing-buggery-fuck o’clock in the morning.

“Come on, Dad,” Violet crouched beside the lump as Mary wriggled out of the warm cocoon, dressed in jeans and John’s oatmeal jumper, “You love pancakes. They’re delicious. Nom nom nom. And Sherry’s making sure Sherlock doesn’t experiment too much with them. Come on, sleepyhead.”

A pair of blue eyes, surmounted by aggrieved eyebrows, appeared to scowl at her.

Violet wafted a fresh pancake under his nose. A blob of the apricot jam she’d smeared on it became, in turn, smeared on the tip of said nose and she giggled. A hand appeared, wiped the smear away and Violet watched as John sucked the jam from his finger.

“That’s home-made jam,” he mumbled.

“I know,” said Violet, “I asked Aunt Sally to bring some especially.”

“I love home-made jam.”

“I _know_ , Dad.”

John sighed, pushed the sleeping blanket down so the full extent of his dishevelled hair and rumpled morning face were unveiled.

“Violet Morstan Watson Holmes,” he said grudgingly, “You do not play fair.”

“She learned from the best,” said Sherlock, although it wasn’t clear which of her parents he meant. All four of them beamed as though taking credit.

Two hours later, Mary, Nirupa and Sally, rugged up against the cold, were outside looking for a tree to chop down.  Smashing up pianos was all well and hilarious, Mary had decided, but she wasn’t going to be the one to cart the corpse out to build a bonfire. That task was left to the canny pair who had killed the thing, and their fathers. The mothers decided collectively that chopping down a small spruce for a Christmas tree would be a much more entertaining use of their time.

Sally followed Mycroft’s directions down to the creek that ran behind the stables, a good ten minute walk away. The snow cover was light and Mary had rigged up a sled of sorts, using some old skis, a wheel-less wheelbarrow and the nylon rope that had so recently saved her daughter from certain doom.

“Vi and Ford are creating something in one of the stalls in the stables,” said Mary during the walk, “Involving a lot cardboard. Any idea what it is?”

“As long as they’re not making some kind of incendiary device for the rest of the parlour, I’m not really worried about it,” said Sally.

“I don’t think it explodes,” said Nirupa, but not confidently, as she pulled a sprig of flowers from a bush as they passed, “And I regret ever letting Violet watch _MacGyver_ that second summer we were in Ghana.”

They stopped as they found a suitable tree, unpacked the axe and the saw, and got to work.

Mary cheerfully took up the axe – she’d chopped down trees before, to build a makeshift bridge in a remote village in Peru – and proceeded to wield it expertly.  Sally was a city girl and her own experience with axes had mostly involved a trained cormorant, a politician and a Lithuanian assassin, who had ultimately required emergency first aid using duct tape, and later on seventy six stitches. Quite beside that being a classified mission, it really wasn’t a story in the spirit of Christmas, so she didn’t share it.

“We used to have a plastic tree,” she said instead, “It was an insanely big tree for just two people. Just me and my Dad. He'd pile up all sorts of presents under it. He had a knack for disguising things so there was no guessing what was inside. He used to scrunch paper all around CDs, or put jewellery inside inflated balloons, that sort of thing. Or he'd gift wrap giant boxes and inside there'd be a card with a hint about where to look in the house. It took me three hours to find my new bicycle one year.”

Mary hefted and swung the axe, taking another satisfying chip out of the trunk of the young spruce. “That sounds enormous fun. Maybe we should try that with the kids next year. Actually, we should try that just with Sherlock. Get Mycroft to write the clues. Mind you, they need a few, don't they? I thought we'd find a tree up when we got here. It's Christmas Eve tomorrow."

"I usually do the tree," said Sally, "But I was flat out before we arrived here and I hadn't had an opportunity. Mycroft claims he likes how I decorate it, but I think he used to just get the staff to do a tree in his office and never bothered at home until I came along."

Mary took a moment to dislodge the axe from the narrow trunk. "My step-dad insisted on a real tree, but I wasn’t allowed to decorate it. He had all these rules about where stuff went. That man had rules about his rules, I swear.”

“That sounds a bit miserable,” said Sally.

“Oh, it was all right. We had a nice enough time. I liked the church services and the singing, but I always got sensible gifts like shoes and books for school. I got a Barbie doll once, and then I got in trouble because I cut off her hair and re-sewed all her dresses into pants suits and superhero capes so I could play Famous African Explorers. The next year it was back to  Improving Books and thick stockings.” She whacked another chunk out of the tree. “I loved that Barbie though. I used to take her with me when I skived off school.”

Nirupa, sitting on a log surrounded by bits of plant life she’d picked during their walk, laughed. “So I’m your substitute Barbie am I?”

Mary wrinkled her nose at Nirupa. “Don’t be daft. She was my stand-in Rupe until I found the real thing. What’s that line of Donne’s? ‘If ever any soulmate I did see, and rambled with, and dropped in the creek, ‘twas but a dream of thee’.”

“I’m almost certain that’s not the original text,” said Nirupa with a sardonic grin. Her nimble fingers were working the winter blooms and leaves she’d found in the neglected garden and along the path: sprigs of holly and berries, red and orange witch hazel, the buds of a shrub that would open into clusters of tiny sugar pink flowers, pieces of yellow wintersweet and white forsythia. She even had a collection of small spruce pine cones.

“What are you making?” Sally asked.

Nirupa grinned. “Decorations for the tree.”

Sally picked up one of the finished small wreaths, made by threading the sprigs and budded twigs around a loop made of a length of stripped green switch. “That’s beautiful.”

“My Naanii taught me to make them.” At Sally’s quizzical look, Nirupa continued, “Being Hindu didn’t stop anyone in my family from having Christmas. We just didn’t do the religious stuff. Trees and presents are all fairly non-religious, anyway, if not actually pagan.”

“We have a house full of atheists,” Sally observed, “I think it’s all about the pagan rituals in there, and trying to stop Sherlock and Ford blowing up the appliances.”

Mary stopped to drag a sleeve across her brow. She pushed at the spruce and it creaked but wasn’t ready yet to fall. “John said Sherlock used to loathe Christmas. All the murders were boring and were mostly about who got possession of the remote control.”

“Mycroft wasn’t much of a fan either,” said Sally, “Though the murder rate wasn’t the issue.”

“I don’t think it was really Sherlock’s issue either,” said Mary, “And John said he never liked the season much himself until Sherlock came back from the dead.”

All three of them paused to consider the real reasons those three men had not especially enjoyed the Christmas season.

“They seem okay now,” remarked Mary, "Happier." Then she took another swing at the tree.

Sally picked up the saw and checked that the blade was properly sharp. “Mycroft and Sherlock are both more relaxed since the kids smashed the piano,” she said. “Mycroft said last night that it’s the first time he’s really laughed in this house since he can remember.”

“He really ought not worry so much,” said Nirupa, putting aside another floral decoration. At Sally’s questioning look, she added: “About being a good father.”

Sally’s first instinct was to scowl, but she crushed it. “How do you know he worries about that?”

Nirupa picked up another twig festooned with winter buds. “It’s what Sherlock worries about.”

“And John,” said Mary, shaking her arms to get the ache out, “The Holmes and Watson _paters_ senior have a lot to answer for.” She sighed. “But most parents do that, don’t they? Apart from those old knobs?  We worry we’re not doing a good job? I know I do.”

Sally brushed a bit of spruce woodchip from her jacket. “I used to,” she said, “But I stopped worrying whether I was a terrible mother a while ago. I mean, I worry about Ford, and Violet, of course I do, but they’re both pretty together kids. They’re smart, confident, and good-hearted. I’ve told Mycroft that the one thing his own father taught his sons that was properly useful was how _not_ to be a parent. He and Sherlock just have to do the opposite of anything that prick did, and it’s always going to be a better choice. He still worries about it, enough for the two of us, so I decided not to worry about being a good parent any more.”

Mary laughed drily. “Wish you’d teach me the trick of it.”

Nirupa’s fingers deftly wound flowers and leaves around another loop of switch. “You worry too much, too, Mary.”

“But we’re not always there, Rupe. We go off around the world, either dragging her along or leaving her behind. And I…” she swallowed. “I’m afraid she’s missing out on so much, that one day she’s going to need us and we’re not going to be there. _I’m_ not going to be there.”

“She’s not alone, Mary,” said Nirupa.

“I know that.  John and Sherlock are brilliant dads. I just… worry.”

Sally waved for Mary to take a break and positioned the saw in the deep V that had been cut into the tree. “I was raised in a single parent house,” she said, “We did all right. My mum died when I was little, so it was just Dad and me. He wasn’t always there in the house, but he was always _there_.” Sally dragged the saw across the trunk. “He was only ever a phone call away. He made sure I knew he loved me. He made sure our house was happy. All by himself. I missed having a mum sometimes, but on the whole, it was great. I never felt like I was missing out.”

A few more energetic passes with the saw and the little spruce began to topple with a crunch. It landed and she started to saw off the rough, torn section. Sally paused to adjust her grip and smiled, more to herself than to her companions, and it was clear her memories were warm. “He was so proud when I made Sergeant. He took me out to dinner, to this really posh French restaurant, and tried to order in French. Funniest thing. Neither of us could stop giggling at Dad’s terrible accent. In the end we fled and went to a pie and mash shop.” Then she sighed. “I miss him, and he’d have been so proud of Ford. Piano murder and exploding appliances notwithstanding.”

She finished sawing and then stood to brush her hands. She turned to Mary and Nirupa. “When I was a rookie cop,” she said, “I saw a lot of miserable kids. Miserable families. Some with two parents, one at home all the time, and it didn’t make a blind bit of difference. Good parenting isn’t just about being in the house. It’s about being engaged with your kids. My Dad was out a lot, working shifts, but he was involved in every part of my life. I was on my own a lot, but I never felt alone or abandoned. He’d leave little notes everywhere, or call and leave messages on the machine. He’d write me letters. I’d come home from school, and he’d be at work, but there’d be this letter he’d posted two days before about how pleased he was with my school results, or how much he’d enjoyed the dinner I’d made, or just to say he was thinking of me. I still have all of them.”

Mary and Nirupa both went to help Sally haul the felled tree into the wheelbarrow sled.

“So we’re not always all in the same room as our kids,” Sally continued, “So what? What matters is that you’re always communicating with Violet, either calling her in London or making sure she’s calling John and Sherlock, and Ford. You write to her, and she writes to everyone else. You’re in constant communication. And you’re not alone. There are six of us. Those kids know they are loved, that there’s always someone there for them, that any of us would move mountains for them. They _know_ that. That's why they can... do things like shove a cabinet through a rotten floor onto a piano and know even if they get in awful trouble, they're loved.”

“They didn't get into awful trouble though did they?” laughed Mary, “As parents we are a bunch of enablers.”

Sally sighed at the truth of this while Nirupa put the finished decorations and the rest of her supplies in her scarf, wrapped them up and put them on top of the tree. She took the handles of the barrow and started to push. The skis slid easily over the frosty ground.

“On a scale of one to twenty,” she said as she pushed, “How happy do you think Violet and Ford are?”

Sally grinned. “On the whole? About a hundred. Especially about getting away with that insane plan with the piano.”

Mary laughed. “They are pretty well adjusted, aren’t they?” She placed a hand on the spruce to keep it steady as Nirupa pushed. “Their dads are doing okay, too.”

“As are you,” said Nirupa, giving Mary a look of affection, “And you should listen to Sally. Violet and Ford are being raised the old fashioned way.” At their sceptical looks, Nirupa laughed. “I mean, by the tribe. For most of human history, that is how children were raised. By the whole tribe. They will never be alone, they will always have someone to turn to, and they know that whatever happens, whatever they need, they are loved and protected.”

She shoved the barrow over a stone as the manor came into view.

“Do you know what Violet told me last night when we arrived?” said Nirupa.

“I heard. She said 'Rupe, you should have seen Sherry and me kill the piano, it was super fantabulous,” quoted Sally, even down to mimicking Violet’s intonations.

Nirupa laughed. “After that. We were in the cottage, talking before bed, and she said ‘Some kids at school complain about their parents and say they wish they were orphans, and that’s so stupid. I’ve got four parents, and Aunt Sally and Uncle Mycroft, so it’s sort of like having three mums and three dads, and even when you're all being massive pains in the arse, that’s the best thing ever’.”

Sally looked to Mary, surprised but moved, and Mary grinned at her. “I know you and Mycroft look out for her,” Mary said, “I’m pleased she knows it too. And I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re both there for her as well.”

“And you,” said Sally, “For Ford, and for Sherlock too," she added, "I think it was harder for him to learn how to be a parent, in some ways. He got a much worse deal from the Old Bastard than Mycroft, and he’s…” She had to stop, her voice too thick with emotion to work for a moment. She cleared it and tried again. “He is excellent with Ford, and Violet too. I’d never have thought, when I first knew him, he’d be such a good father, but he is.”

There was a shout up ahead and the three women paused to take in the view. The bonfire pyre was beautifully, even artfully, constructed in the yard, but what grabbed their attention was not the elegant steeple of wood made from the piano lid, a few wardrobe doors and a cracked coat stand. It was the shrieks of laughter and the flying snowballs as Mycroft, Sherlock and Ford on one side of the pyre waged frosty war with John and Violet on the other. The imbalance in numbers was compensated for by the fact that Violet had inherited her father’s unerring aim. The Holmes faction was deeply snow-encrusted, although the Watson faction was by no means unscathed.

“It’s official,” said Mary, beaming, “As parents, we’re all doing okay. From this day forth, I stop worrying about screwing up and put my faith in the tribe.”

“That’s my Mary,” said Nirupa, laughing.

“And now,” said Sally, bending to pick up a handful of snow, “Time to choose sides in the civil war.”

And she threw a snowball into Mary’s face and took off to join the Holmes side of the tribe.

Mary spluttered, Nirupa bent to pack together a snow weapon of her own, and they too marched into merry battle.


	6. Gambols of Christmas Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins with Violet shoving snow down Ford's jacket, develops into the Great Snowball Civil War and ends with Tarzan's pants on fire. Finally, this awful house has made a perfect memory for Sherlock to keep in his mind palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two posts today to make up for the gap. The next story should be the final in this Xmas series!
> 
> And my thanks to Natsuko1978 who gave me help and ideas with the hot chocolate scene and the carol.

It began because Ford complained about being hot, having spent an hour dragging bits of shattered wood into the front yard for the bonfire pyre. Violet declared in turn that she had a cure for that. And then she shoved a handful of snow down the back of Ford’s coat.

Sherlock had taken one look at Ford’s outraged little face and in the best parenting tradition, burst out laughing.

Ford scooped up a handful of snow and fired the first true shot of the civil war, getting Sherlock directly in the mouth with the small but effective snowball.

John doubled up laughing at Sherlock’s outraged little face, but when the second shot was fired by Sherlock, he employed years of experience as a soldier and the Great Detective’s offsider, and ducked.

Mycroft, who had been watching the exchange with an indulgent eye, found that eye full of snow.

For a long moment, Sherlock and Mycroft stared at each other, aghast.

Absolutely aghast.

And then Mycroft Holmes – the British Government – slowly crouched, never taking his steady gaze off his brother’s calculating regard. More slowly still, he gathered up a handful of snow. He rose gradually, while Sherlock narrowed his eyes, packing the handful of snow into a rough ball. It was good snow. Sticky. It made a nice, solid sphere.

Still looking Sherlock in the eye, he drew back his arm.

Sherlock squinted, went into a crouch, preparing to dodge, depending on where he judged the blow would fall…

…and Mycroft Holmes pitched a snowball right into John Watson’s face, punched a fist in the air and pronounced it: “A palpable hit!”

The triumph was short-lived, because 15 seconds later, Violet, the valiant daughter of John Hamish Watson took revenge in her father’s name, and pitched a deadly accurate ball of pure white snow over five yards right into her uncle’s left ear.

Whereupon Sherlock gave a triumphant roar and rallied the troops with a war cry of “To me!”, resulting in Ford grabbing Mycroft by the hand and leaping to Sherlock’s side, taking cover on one side of the grand pile of smashed piano and bits of wardrobe, plus a coat stand he’d found in the study next to the oak chest which was somewhere in the middle of the wood pile.

John and Violet, meantime, had dived for cover behind a snow bank and proceeded to bob up and down with great speed and accuracy as they covered the enemy position with snowy projectiles.

Although the Holmes faction had the greater numbers and superior strategists, the tactical expertise and skill of the Watson side of war kept the war evenly matched.

Then the reinforcements arrived from their foray into the field to fetch a Christmas tree, and soon it was four against four.

Sally Donovan turned out to be very nearly a match for John Watson’s steady aim, plus she was sneaky. This Holmesian asset was offset by the equal sneakiness of Mary Morstan, who had practised the art of sneakiness from an early age. Nirupa D’Souza brought the advantages of height to the otherwise relatively short Watson platoon.

There followed a half hour of skirmishes, sneak attacks, shouted taunts and whispered Secret Orders, culminating in a massive, all-in kamikiaze assault. At the end of the war, the casualties were eight wet, cold, shivering human beings who were giggling through the chattering teeth.

“Inside, all of you!” said John, turning instantly from warrior to mother hen, “Into the kitchen in front of the fire!”

Blankets were fetched, wet coats and clothing were stripped, Violet sent to the downstairs bathroom for a hot shower while Ford danced about in his pants and his father’s voluminous dressing gown and too-large slippers, waiting for his turn. John, Sally, Sherlock and Nirupa huddled in front of the fire in their underwear and warm blankets while Mycroft, also in underwear and blanket, put on the kettle and Mary lit the stove for extra warmth, nearly dropping her blanket in the process. (Mycroft averted his eyes in a gentlemanly fashion.)

“This is an interesting new family tradition,” said John, laughing.

“Standing in various states of undress and fighting for a place by the fire?” suggested Sherlock.

“Sure. Why not. It’s you lanky bastards have the problem. We short-arses can get in under the radar and steal the prime positions.” So saying, John grabbed Ford and Mary each by the hand and brought them in close on either side, underneath the arms of their taller family members, and hogged the warmth of the fireplace.

“You, John Watson,” said Sherlock, poking John in the back with a pointy forefinger, “Are taking liberties.”

Ford turned around to wrap his skinny arms around Sherlock’s middle and squish him in a hug. “Give him a break, Sherlock,” he said, voice muffled against the blanket, “He’s only little.” And then he giggled like a maniac into the draped wool while John looked mock-offended and Sherlock ruffled Ford’s curly hair.

In due course, everyone was dry, warm and properly dressed. Mycroft, with the utmost care, made a pot of Green and Blacks hot chocolate, made richer with a pot of cream included and warmer, for the adults, with a generous splash of excellent rum. When Sherlock saw the tower of spray whipped cream and pieces of Flake on Violet and Ford’s drinks, Sally relented and added the topping to Sherlock’s mug as well. Sherlock only briefly considered being prickly at the way she grinned about it, but decided he didn’t give a toss, stole the tin of cream and fired a shot of it directly into his mouth. Nirupa then stole the cream from Sherlock, and half of his Flake, which she gave to Mary.

The Second Civil War was avoided by Sally securing the cream to be under her sole control and distributing cream and flakey chocolate to all the children of all ages there present.

After the hot chocolate, John and Sherlock went out to fetch the spruce and Nirupa’s decorations from the barrow-sleigh. Between them they set up the tree in the corner of the large kitchen, using the oak chest, retrieved from the pyre and filled with a sack of unused concrete mix found in the leeward side of the old greenhouse, as a base.

Nirupa showed Violet and Ford how to make the foliage decorations, and was soon joined by Mary, Sally and Mycroft. He turned out to have deft fingers himself, despite the pinky finger that still didn’t bend properly.

John fetched his guitar and played and sang carols while the others joined in as they decorated the tree. The kitchen filled with song and the fragrances of spruce, winter blooms and woodsmoke.

Sherlock, having placed artfully tied sprays of witch hazel and wintersweet at arbitrary points around the tree, stood back to watch the others decorate the spruce. After a moment he sat beside John, who was still singing, steepled his fingers against his lips and stared intently at the tree in its oak chest base, at the tree and all its pagan decorations, at his unexpected family laughing, singing and hanging sprigs of winter blossoms. He took in every detail of the sights, the sounds, the scents, the taste of the chocolate lingering under his tongue, the sensation of heat from the fire along his right side.

He sensed eyes on him and glanced towards John, singing but regarding him with affection and a hint of curiosity. Sherlock leaned in close, and John stopped singing for a moment, though he kept playing.

Against John’s ear, Sherlock said: “When we leave here, I will delete everything that no longer matters about this house, and I will remember every detail of this room from these last few days. This, especially.” He paused. “And the parlour when Ford and Violet murdered that bloody piano.”

Then he grinned, sat up straight in his chair, and began to sing _We Three Kings_ in harmony with John, before getting a wicked twinkle in his eye and taking over the song with:

_We three kings of Leicester Square  
Selling women's underwear_

With a bark of delighted laughter, John immediately joined in on that version, doing the harmonies, and Ford and Violet joined in at the top of their lungs.

_They're fantastic_   
_Just the elastic!_   
_Twenty-five pence a pair!_

And then Sally, Nirupa and Mary joined in while Mycroft, initially bemused and then mildly alarmed and finally wonderingly amused, hummed along.

_Oh-ooooh_   
_Star of wonder, Star of Night_   
_Tarzan caught his pants alight!_   
_Westward leading,_   
_He's still bleeding!_   
_He looks such a perfect fright._


	7. Double Delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Christmas Eve bonfire and everyone loves that for different reasons. And then Christmas Day comes around. Project Good Dad Sherlock changed somewhere along the line. Ford and Violet have made puzzle cards for everyone. For a little while, though, they worry that they've actually broken their parents. Every single one of them.
> 
> Christmas Schmoop ahoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is it from me for this year. Merry Xmas everybody. May your hearts be full, and your hearths be warm, and wherever you are in relation to the people that you love, be certain that geographical distance does not diminish by one part the proximity of love.

**Christmas Eve**

A day spent preparing much of the following day’s feast in advance. Cranberry sauce and chocolate mint truffles. A marinading turkey, pork and apricot stuffing minced and prepared, a careful plan of attack laid out. These were people who strategised and calculated for a living. People who built bridges, negotiated projects in multiple languages, defended the nation, solved crime, carried out medical treatments and military tactics, managed really very complicated things. Preparing Christmas lunch? A doddle.

The bonfire on Christmas Eve after dinner was marvellous, and fulfilled numerous requirements for some of the participants.

From John’s point of view, it was warm, it made Sherlock happy, Violet had an excellent time dancing around the thing like a pagan warrior, and nothing was on fire that should not have been on fire. Mary had also helped him eat a toasted marshmallow in a manner that was bound to lead to more sleeping bag sex, and he couldn’t help but approve, just as he approved of where she was choosing to keep her hand right now.

Mary leaned against John and laughed at her daughter raging around the place like a delighted savage, and the way the fire lit up Sherlock’s grin like he was some kind of fire demon. She smiled at how Nirupa smiled at everyone ranged around the bonfire, perhaps thinking that nobody could see how surprised she seemed. Nirupa had come to this mad family as a sort of plus one, but she was deep in it now: one of the mothers, a bonus in-law. She was an anthropologist, and her job was to be in the outside looking in – but Mary knew that Nirupa knew that here, she was on the inside, with the rest of them, and happy to be here. Mary also liked how nobody could see she had her hand under John’s coat and was patting his arse. Well, John knew. John was enjoying that immensely.

From Sherlock’s point of view, it was a satisfyingly huge fire and it burned several items he’d detested from childhood, so it was both interestingly destructive and emotionally cathartic. He would not have admitted to the latter, but still. He had hidden within the pyre a collection of smaller items, including some books, which burned very well indeed. John would not have approved of him burning books, and really, he wouldn’t actually want Ford or Violet to witness such a thing. But those books. Those awful fucking books. Rewards, they’d been called, for good behaviour. He’d only ever got three of them, and he’d been furious with himself for buckling under and being afraid and… and _behaving_. Curtailing himself and telling lies to make other people – not just his father – comfortable. He didn’t mind doing that sometimes, of course. But these lies were just meant to protect the guilty, and he detested that he’d ever done it, even if he was only eight. So he burned those rewards, even though they’d been quite expensive books. (He ignored all the surreptitious kissing and fondling that was going on around the fire, while at the same time allowing that it was nice that everyone was in a good mood, and also feeling very relieved he was staying in the cottage instead of the house, where the fondling was bound to develop into anyone in the next room needing earplugs.)

Mycroft really, really enjoyed watching the piano burn but was more enamoured of Sherrinford and Violet running around doing some kind of war dance and then insisting that everyone toast marshmallows on sticks. He had never toasted marshmallows on sticks over a fire before. Awful, sticky, messy things that dripped on your jacket and fingers and burned your skin. However, Sally, tugging him to the opposite side of the pyre from Sherlock’s, had sucked his burnt fingers cool and licked melted marshmallow from his lip, and so now toasting marshmallows was his new favourite thing.

Sally was simply happy that Mycroft was happy, and that her son was engaged in some kind of victory dance with Violet was a puzzling bonus. She hoped that, on the morrow, she wouldn’t discover he’d actually destroyed the entire north end of the stables or anything. At least, not without good reason.

Nirupa gazed into and around the fire, at the people she loved being happy, and wondering still, after all these years, how she’d managed to end up in the middle of it all. She’d gone from being the perennial outsider to having a place in the middle of something unexpected and complicated and yet perfectly simple. A life written in a language she hadn’t known, and couldn’t teach, but spoke to her anyway.

Ford and Violet thought a massive fire was absolutely brilliant. The burning piano was absolutely brilliant too, and Sherlock had secretly put books in the middle of it, which was Bad and Wrong, but it was making him do that I Have a Happy Secret face, so they figured he had his reasons. They had their own I Have A Happy Secret expressions, so they felt a bit kindred with him. They’d completed their Special Mission for Christmas, and in celebration had made everyone toast marshmallows. They were tickled pink to see Sally and Mycroft, and also John and Mary, being all lovey-dovey and smoochie-face too, even though parents kissing was a bit icky, but still, kissy-face parents were happy parents, and that was all to the good. Bursting with their secret and how happy their family was, they danced around the fire, whooping and laughing, because life and Christmas were too good not to.

When the fire had burned down low, Nirupa made Marshmallow Chocolate Bananas with them – ripe bananas split open in their skins, stuffed with marshmallows and bits of chocolate, wrapped in tinfoil then shoved into the embers to heat and melt. Sticky, gooey, rich and too much after dinner and toasted marshmallows, but everyone ate one. Well, Sherlock mostly just examined his and stated his intention to do experiments on it of some kind, and Mary ended up painting a portion of hers once it had cooled onto John’s nose and kissed it off, while he laughingly protested until Violet said “Mu-u-u-u-u-u-um” and “Da-a-a-a-a-a-ad” in the disgusted tone of children the world over.

Then Sherlock fetched his violin, John his guitar, and Violet took out the flute she’d been learning this year. Ford dashed into the house and then came out again with his own small violin. He learned the piano too, but the one they’d had here was out of tune and now also smashed and burned to cinders, and so the four of them played.

The look on Sherlock’s face as he played a violin duet with his boy was priceless, of value beyond measure, and Mycroft held Sally’s hand tight, and kissed her knuckles to avoid letting anyone see how close to tears he was, that this second chance of his had turned out so perfectly. Sally knew, but she kept the secrets of his heart.

Mary was openly happy-tears weepy, watching Violet and John play, watching Sherlock with her too. She held hands with Nirupa and wiped her eyes, knowing that none of them would ever be alone.

When the little quartet played _It Came Upon a Midnight Clear_ , Mycroft sang it with them, and danced with Sally around the banking fire, while Mary and Nirupa danced together too, for that and the _Candlelight Carol._

When it got cold, there was more singing and dancing in the kitchen, and mulled wine for the adults and, all right then, a small sip for the children, who didn’t like it much and had hot chocolate instead.

Then bed. No anticipation for Santa Claus – Ford had seen through the Santa ruse at a young age, and what he knew, Violet knew, but they thought it was a neat story and weren’t bothered that it wasn’t a tradition for them – but there was plenty of other anticipation. Christmas without Santa, in this family, was still full of surprises and fun and the unexpected. And who knew? Perhaps Sherlock wouldn’t deduce all of his presents this year.

(Those in the main house did indeed indulge in more of that joyful noise they so loved, and slept snuggled against their adored other halves; and those in the cottage were pleased to let them get on with whatever they thought the people in the house were getting on with – whether that was ‘parental smoocheramas’ or ‘I refuse to think about the inevitable coitus good god, Nirupa, throw another almanac on the fire and change the subject!’.)

**Christmas Day.**

Breakfast. Tea and crumpets.  Cheese toasties and coffee.  Champagne and orange juice.

Gifts under the spruce tree. Paper and ribbon like a merry explosion in the kitchen. Sherlock deducing all his gifts anyway, because for him that was part of the fun, and desisting from deducing everyone else’s because he didn’t want Violet to gag him with ribbon again, like she did two years ago.

He didn’t deduce the Special Gift, though. The outcome of Project Good Dad Sherlock that had morphed into The Parent Project.

Near the end of the gift-giving, Ford and Violet exchanged a conspiratorial look, told their room full of parents that they’d ‘be right back’ and they ran off.

They came back with six large envelopes and with the solemnity of a great ceremony, they handed one envelope to each adult.

Each adult opened the envelope to find a large, hand-made card, apparently decorated with random words, random letters. On the back of each one was a circular pattern, a wheel, made up of letters and spaces. Within that circle was another wheel, also covered in letters and spaces, pinned into place with paper fasteners, jabbed through the centre and the bronze-coloured wings folded out, so the inner wheel could move to match with the outer wheel.

Mycroft spotted it was a puzzle first, but Sherlock was a nanosecond on his heels. They looked at each other, looked at the cards, approached each other and examined the cipher wheels on the back.

Ford and Violet stood to one side, watching them, grinning, holding hands to keep their excitement contained.

The trick was to work out where to position the inner wheel and the outer, and how to apply that to the apparent random lettering on the card.

The first thing Sherlock deduced was that no-one had their own cipher on the back of their card. So the parents laid all the cards out to determine which wheels deciphered which cards. The solution related to pictures that Violet had drawn on each cover, which were matched to pictures near the wheel on a different card.

Mary’s bird, for example, matched with the little nest underneath Sally’s wheel. Mycroft’s umbrella with a raincloud on Nirupa’s. Sherlock’s violin with a tiny musical note on Mary’s. The match to John’s book was a pen on Mycroft’s card, Sally’s sword found a sheath on John’s, and Nirupa’s carefully drawn rupee partnered with the word for ‘mother’ in Hindi on Sherlock’s card.

The placement of the matching picture showed where the first letter of each parent’s first name should align, and thus unlock the cipher.

Then several minutes were spent in translation.

And then Ford and Violet stared and stared and stared, because they didn’t know what they’d expected. Laughter, maybe. Perhaps a big smile and a hug, and praise from Sherlock about the puzzle. Mothers, they thought, might get sniffly, or dads a bit happy-choking-on-a-biscuit faces.

Not this.

Not the silence.

Not the way each parent stared at their own card, unable to lift their gazes from it, only to find when they finally did that each parent just stared at the other five, amazed and mute with emotion. Then they looked down at their own cards again.

Ford and Violet looked at each other, hushed and large-eyed, and wondered if they’d broken their parents, all of them, with the messages they’d written all over the cards.

_When you sing my lullaby I feel like nothing can hurt me._

_It doesn’t matter that you don’t sing, you’re the best dancer and you taught me how to moonwalk._

_You do important things and I know you worry about being so busy, but every day you tell me you love me, and you text if you’re not home. I always feel like I’m more important to you than anything._

_You taught me that orange blankets mean I love you._

_You show me the world, and how huge and beautiful it is – thank you._

_You teach me all the ways to say ‘love’ and ‘mum’ and ‘home’ in all the languages you know._

_You listen when I need to talk._

_You almost never shout, unless I’ve just killed a piano, so that’s understandable._

_You always explain things and never talk down to us so we know I can talk to you about anything._

_You let me try things on my own, but I know you’re near if I need you._

_You taught us how to tie good knots, so you might have saved our lives with the piano thing._

_You taught me about safety harnesses. I think that probably saved our lives when we killed the piano._

_You taught me my home is wherever my family is, and I have lots of homes._

_I sing the Impossible Song when I feel scared and it makes me feel safe and happy._

_You tell funny stories and make us laugh._

_You give the best hugs._

_I love that face you make when you think you’re hiding that you’re being sentimental._

_I know I’m home when I hear music._

_When I can’t sleep I pretend I can hear you playing and I nod right off._

_When I don’t know what to do, I think about what you would say._

_You taught us how to be brave._

_You make us feel strong._

_You make us feel safe._

_I know wherever I am, someone who loves me is not far away._

_We are so lucky to have parents like you._

_I am so happy you’re my mum too._

_I want to be like both of you._

_I am always happy when I realise I’m a bit like you._

_You are a brilliant dad._

_You are an awesome mum._

_We love you._

_We love you._

_We love you._

Nirupa was the first to cry. She swallowed hard and ran her fingers over the card, and she blinked and tears slid down her cheeks.

Mary grabbed Rupe’s hand and squeezed it, and smiled a very soggy smile.

John sort of laughed and rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye. “Well, fuck,” he said.

Mycroft pressed a hand to his lower lip and didn’t move until Sally wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pressed her forehead against his temple. She made an odd little noise and whispered “See?” and Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned into her.

Sherlock slowly lifted his eyes from the card and looked at the children. This was way past the happy-biscuit-choke look. This was way beyond pretending not to be sentimental. His left hand shook for a moment before he willed it still. His mouth did an odd pursing thing, the corners of it pressing into deep grooves periodically, as though he were biting the inside of his lip.

“Ford…” he started, then stopped. “Violet…” he tried again. He looked around the table, at the room full of people so stunned they could barely speak. Sherlock looked at those two children again, at how they held hands tightly and looked so worriedly at their collective parents.

“We…” he said, because he was troubled by their worry. He cleared his throat. “This…” He put the card on the table. Smoothed his hand over it. Picked it up again because it he hated to not hold the precious, precious thing.

“Thank you,” he said at last.

It broke the silence and the stillness.

“Ford!”

“Oh god, sweetheart.”

“Come here and let me hug you.”

“My baby girl.”

Hugs. Kisses. Complaints about the soppiness, but laughter too. Tears. Happy, happy tears.

Sherlock stood outside it all and watched Mary and Nirupa kiss their little girl; Sally hug Ford as though he were the answer to life itself; Mycroft kneel to fold Ford in his arms;  John spin Violet around in a hug.

Violet saw him and broke free. She launched herself at her other father. The next thing, Sherlock found he had both Violet and Ford around his middle, and he was clinging to them and couldn’t quite work out how to let go. Not even when John looked at them and laughed, jubilantly, his wonderful face flushed with happiness: radiant.

Not even when Sally leaned over to kiss Violet’s hair and ruffle Ford’s, and smile at Sherlock as though they had never, ever been enemies.

Not even when Mycroft stood before him, then leaned over to look into Sherlock’s eyes and say:

“We are nothing like him, you and I.” _It is such a relief_ , the unspoken undertow.

“Nor her,” said Sherlock softly.

“Nor her,” Mycroft agreed.

Ford bumped his head gently against Sherlock’s ribs. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” He turned his head, his skin still pressed to Sherlock, to grin up at his dad. “Happy Christmas, Dad.”

Violet squeezed Sherlock a little harder and turned her smiling face up to his. “Don’t forget, all right?”

“Forget what?”

“You’re brilliant,” said Violet.

“He is,” agreed John, bending to kiss her head, “And so are you and Ford.” Then he started tickling her and she shrieked and giggled and squirmed until she was able to break breathlessly free and decided to commit a Tickle Offensive against Ford.

The All-Out Tickle War was declared, fought and collapsed without a victor over the next ten minutes, leading in to the Fabulous Christmas Lunch of Near Military Precision and Ridiculous Amounts of Joy of 2026.

 


End file.
